04-20-2017, 10:37 AM
Crowley felt really, really weird.
The bug Magda had coaxed into crawling under his skin was probably— maybe— possibly— could have been?— the cause of it. But, Crowley imagined that he was plenty all right with that. Because Magda was skipping along before him— well, not really skipping, more of a skitter like rats do in the dark corners of a storage closet— and she’d guaranteed that she was taking him somewhere great. And, once he’d discovered that he couldn’t really disagree with that, Crowley had readily given in and followed her when she asked him to.
“You’re so short,” he told her, just about tripping over his own legs when they began to climb a staircase that went all spirally around the corner of a building, a lot of the stones breaking off and tumbling down, down, down in what was surely worthy of a work zone hazard sign.
Everything was lit up orange and gold, painfully bright and kinda annoying in his opinion. The building was on fire, too. Everything was on fire? Was that even safe?
As Crowley pondered this mysterious mystery of mysteriousness, some random demon swept by him on the way up the stairs. They had an angel’s head, all stretched and covered in eyes of all sorts, shaped into a big ol’ mushroom cloud and hollowing inward with a kind of cerebral dignity that made their head seem like a raw chicken breast.
Ha! Breasts.
The angel-headed fiend gave him a confused look. He wondered if he had said all that out loud. But— oh! Oh! There was Magda, grabbing his hand with her soft little paw-fingers. She tugged him along, a frown on her face and Crowley thought he might be in trouble. She didn’t hit him or anything, though, which was okay, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if she hit him. Her hands looked so soft? Softer than Cottonelle or Aziraphale’s couch in the back-room of his bookshop. And— and she was so helpful, like a fairy godmother without the wings or sparkles. Magda was awesome.
Where were they going? Crowley didn’t rightly know. It was all crazy dark and shadowy, the crowded streets all seemed much the same to him. He hoped Magda was right about wherever they were headed being decent. He hoped it had ducks. He liked ducks.
Suddenly Crowley snorted, stumbled, and then sneezed when a tickle in his nose became too much. Must’ve been from all the black ash flying through the air. What in the damn hell did they need all this ash for? Some people, important people he was sure, had, er… had… allergies! ALLERGIES! The scourge of our times, last time he checked. Hell was stupid.
Magda whacked him on the nose and just as predicted, it didn’t hurt one bit, like being bopped with a foam finger or a whack-a-mole hammer. Wait, was he supposed to be paying attention to something? It was hard enough to keep track of where to put his feet when walking.
He looked down at Magda. It took a while for her fingers to stop multiplying into an indecipherable blur.
(Quit talking. You’re attracting unwanted attention.)
He continued to stare down at the imp. She had her paws bunched up and set on her hips, one foot rapping pointedly against the ground. For the total of thirty minutes he had known her, Crowley had begun to notice how her cloak utterly swamped her short frame, sleeves falling down to her elbows and the wide neck revealing just enough to show that she was probably covered with grey fur everywhere.
Not to mention that not a word had slipped past her lips, either, besides small chirps and trills. This was curious, as Crowley was one to vocalize most ex-quis-ite-ly at every opportunity.
( You’re in love with the sound of your own voice, Aziraphale had said to him once, reading from a sensationalist column in the papers. It’s a vanity thing narcissists do, you know. A comfort.
If you had my voice, Crowley replied, You would love to hear yourself talk, as well! )
He just didn’t get it. But, he wasn’t about to judge, and if that was truly what Magda wanted, he would absolutely do it! She was so nice to him, and perfect, and smart, and looking at him strangely once again...
She squinted at him, like she was suspicious or something. (Let’s go. And remember, be quiet.)
“You got it, boss!” Crowley said. And there she went, always looking out for him, walking ahead and glaring other, bigger demons out of the way with sheer force of will. Magda was the best.
Unfortunately, they soon arrived at a concrete barrier that Magda could not simply glare out of their path. He was standing so close that he could see the grains in the stone, stippled and pocked all over like an orange peel. Tilting his head so far back that his head swam with dizziness, Crowley realized that what he had assumed to be the sky was, in fact, a Big Red Wall.
He startled and turned when Magda began to move again, her tiny figure already headed toward another flight of stairs. This new set of stairs, however, went down, and Crowley soon grimaced against the rush of stale air emanating from the tunnel entrance. There was no way he was going into some rancid hole in the ground. Places like that had mites.
Crowley turned to Magda, a complaint primed and ready upon his lips, but stopped a second later. The drug dulled the negative before it could have a chance to negate, leaving him very much confused with his mouth open and no words spilling out. He closed his mouth, blinked, glanced confusedly off to the side, and then looked back at Magda.
Slowly, shyly, a smile crept onto his face. The fallen angel smiled as if some secret had just been imparted to him, marveling at the imp and appreciating that she had waited so very patiently for him to catch up, a steady warmth already blossoming in his chest.
Somehow they ended up in a catacomb-like place that wasn’t exactly underground but more of a shallow depression beneath the Big Red Wall. It smelled like a tube system, with all the graffiti and illegible, multi-colored scrawling needed to complete the picture. Huddled figures scuttled behind trash bins or peered out from jagged crevices, the thick odor of rotting flesh cloying about their ragged clothing. Crowley could have sworn that he saw large plastic bags hung up from the highest point of the low ceiling, the dewy imprints of hands pressed against the clear elastic and jumbled, murky limbs bundled up inside like a child’s Easter basket stuffed full of candies.
Weird, yes.
The bug Magda had coaxed into crawling under his skin was probably— maybe— possibly— could have been?— the cause of it. But, Crowley imagined that he was plenty all right with that. Because Magda was skipping along before him— well, not really skipping, more of a skitter like rats do in the dark corners of a storage closet— and she’d guaranteed that she was taking him somewhere great. And, once he’d discovered that he couldn’t really disagree with that, Crowley had readily given in and followed her when she asked him to.
“You’re so short,” he told her, just about tripping over his own legs when they began to climb a staircase that went all spirally around the corner of a building, a lot of the stones breaking off and tumbling down, down, down in what was surely worthy of a work zone hazard sign.
Everything was lit up orange and gold, painfully bright and kinda annoying in his opinion. The building was on fire, too. Everything was on fire? Was that even safe?
As Crowley pondered this mysterious mystery of mysteriousness, some random demon swept by him on the way up the stairs. They had an angel’s head, all stretched and covered in eyes of all sorts, shaped into a big ol’ mushroom cloud and hollowing inward with a kind of cerebral dignity that made their head seem like a raw chicken breast.
Ha! Breasts.
The angel-headed fiend gave him a confused look. He wondered if he had said all that out loud. But— oh! Oh! There was Magda, grabbing his hand with her soft little paw-fingers. She tugged him along, a frown on her face and Crowley thought he might be in trouble. She didn’t hit him or anything, though, which was okay, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if she hit him. Her hands looked so soft? Softer than Cottonelle or Aziraphale’s couch in the back-room of his bookshop. And— and she was so helpful, like a fairy godmother without the wings or sparkles. Magda was awesome.
Where were they going? Crowley didn’t rightly know. It was all crazy dark and shadowy, the crowded streets all seemed much the same to him. He hoped Magda was right about wherever they were headed being decent. He hoped it had ducks. He liked ducks.
Suddenly Crowley snorted, stumbled, and then sneezed when a tickle in his nose became too much. Must’ve been from all the black ash flying through the air. What in the damn hell did they need all this ash for? Some people, important people he was sure, had, er… had… allergies! ALLERGIES! The scourge of our times, last time he checked. Hell was stupid.
Magda whacked him on the nose and just as predicted, it didn’t hurt one bit, like being bopped with a foam finger or a whack-a-mole hammer. Wait, was he supposed to be paying attention to something? It was hard enough to keep track of where to put his feet when walking.
He looked down at Magda. It took a while for her fingers to stop multiplying into an indecipherable blur.
(Quit talking. You’re attracting unwanted attention.)
He continued to stare down at the imp. She had her paws bunched up and set on her hips, one foot rapping pointedly against the ground. For the total of thirty minutes he had known her, Crowley had begun to notice how her cloak utterly swamped her short frame, sleeves falling down to her elbows and the wide neck revealing just enough to show that she was probably covered with grey fur everywhere.
Not to mention that not a word had slipped past her lips, either, besides small chirps and trills. This was curious, as Crowley was one to vocalize most ex-quis-ite-ly at every opportunity.
( You’re in love with the sound of your own voice, Aziraphale had said to him once, reading from a sensationalist column in the papers. It’s a vanity thing narcissists do, you know. A comfort.
If you had my voice, Crowley replied, You would love to hear yourself talk, as well! )
He just didn’t get it. But, he wasn’t about to judge, and if that was truly what Magda wanted, he would absolutely do it! She was so nice to him, and perfect, and smart, and looking at him strangely once again...
She squinted at him, like she was suspicious or something. (Let’s go. And remember, be quiet.)
“You got it, boss!” Crowley said. And there she went, always looking out for him, walking ahead and glaring other, bigger demons out of the way with sheer force of will. Magda was the best.
Unfortunately, they soon arrived at a concrete barrier that Magda could not simply glare out of their path. He was standing so close that he could see the grains in the stone, stippled and pocked all over like an orange peel. Tilting his head so far back that his head swam with dizziness, Crowley realized that what he had assumed to be the sky was, in fact, a Big Red Wall.
He startled and turned when Magda began to move again, her tiny figure already headed toward another flight of stairs. This new set of stairs, however, went down, and Crowley soon grimaced against the rush of stale air emanating from the tunnel entrance. There was no way he was going into some rancid hole in the ground. Places like that had mites.
Crowley turned to Magda, a complaint primed and ready upon his lips, but stopped a second later. The drug dulled the negative before it could have a chance to negate, leaving him very much confused with his mouth open and no words spilling out. He closed his mouth, blinked, glanced confusedly off to the side, and then looked back at Magda.
Slowly, shyly, a smile crept onto his face. The fallen angel smiled as if some secret had just been imparted to him, marveling at the imp and appreciating that she had waited so very patiently for him to catch up, a steady warmth already blossoming in his chest.
Somehow they ended up in a catacomb-like place that wasn’t exactly underground but more of a shallow depression beneath the Big Red Wall. It smelled like a tube system, with all the graffiti and illegible, multi-colored scrawling needed to complete the picture. Huddled figures scuttled behind trash bins or peered out from jagged crevices, the thick odor of rotting flesh cloying about their ragged clothing. Crowley could have sworn that he saw large plastic bags hung up from the highest point of the low ceiling, the dewy imprints of hands pressed against the clear elastic and jumbled, murky limbs bundled up inside like a child’s Easter basket stuffed full of candies.
Weird, yes.
Quote:12,800 words
![[Image: 18yM1ww.gif]](http://i.imgur.com/18yM1ww.gif)
She's a Killer Queen!
Gunpowder, gelatine, dynamite with a laser beam,
Guaranteed to blow your mind!
- "Killer Queen", Queen